Last Chance to Die, Noah Boyd [most read book in the world TXT] 📗

When he reached the van, Bursaw looked around casually before lifting the engine cover. In less than a minute, the van’s horn started blaring. He lowered the hood and walked back to the car. “Let’s just hope his apartment is close enough to the street for him to hear that.”

The two men watched the windows at the front of the apartment building as a couple of lights came on. Five minutes later a black man in his early thirties with a shaved head came out and unlocked the van’s door. They could see him pushing angrily on the horn, trying to get it to release.

Bursaw put the Bureau car in gear. “Get a big mouthful of this warm air, because if this moron runs, he’s all yours, Steve.”

They pulled up to the van, and Vail rolled down his window. “Can we give you a hand, sir?”

The man turned and started to say something. But then he saw that the two men were law enforcement. “No, that’s all right, I got it.” He disappeared around the front of his van and raised the hood.

As quietly as possible, Vail opened the car door. Bursaw said, “Hey, Steve, remember that time in Detroit when you left me outside to cover the back of that house for an hour in below-zero weather? Remember how sick I got?”

Vail looked back inside the car and saw Bursaw’s hand move to the siren switch with the impending ceremony of a symphony conductor. Vail started to laugh. “Come on, Luke, don’t. I’m begging you.”

“I know what a proponent of revenge you are, so this is for you.” Bursaw flicked the switch on and off rapidly. It gave a brief yelp. Vail hurried around the front of the van. The man turned quickly and slashed at Vail’s face with a screwdriver. Vail fell back out of the way, and it was all the delay the man needed to take off running.

Vail looked at Bursaw, who was laughing. “Keep laughing and I’ll let this guy get away.”

“It’s impossible for you to let anyone get away with anything,” Bursaw said. “The idiot agent’s code, remember?”

Vail took off at a dead run. Bursaw pulled the car up next to him and drove at the same speed. “A white man chasing a black man. Sounds like we’re about to have a violation of civil rights.”

Vail glanced over at him and tried to look angry.

“Appears like you’ve lost a step since Detroit. Get those knees up, Vail. I think you’re losing him. Knees up.”

Vail struggled not to laugh. It was hard enough running in the cold air. He watched as Bursaw pulled ahead and turned right.

Vail could still see the man almost a block ahead of him now, also turning right. Somehow Bursaw had guessed correctly. Vail pushed himself harder. When he got to the corner and turned, the man was gone. And there was no place to hide. Vail sprinted to the next corner and looked both ways. To the left, half a block up, Bursaw had the man pinned against the car and was applying some sort of jujitsu arm bar, causing the man to rise to his tiptoes and whimper in pain.

Vail ran up and handcuffed him. Bursaw pulled out the man’s wallet. “Mr. Jonathan Wilkins. Congratulations, you have just received a demonstration of the old hammer-and-anvil tactic, which goes all the way back to Alexander the Great.” When Wilkins didn’t say anything, Bursaw said, “Not a history buff, huh, Jonathan?”

“I didn’t do nothing,” Wilkins said.

“You know, Jonathan, I’m really starting to hate my job. In the fifteen years I’ve been with the FBI, not once have I arrested the right man.” Bursaw pushed him into the backseat, and Vail got in next to him. As they drove to the Washington Field Office, Vail advised him of his rights.

Vail watched the monitor as Bursaw started interviewing Wilkins. There was no table or desk between them, and the black agent was in the prisoner’s body space, their knees almost touching. Bursaw handed Wilkins the photographs of the three dead prostitutes. “Ever see these girls?”

Wilkins looked at the photos, trying to appear disinterested. “No.”

“They’re prostitutes. Ever go out with a prostitute?”

“Never paid for it in my life.”

Bursaw noted his overall slovenliness. “A real ladies’ man, huh, Jonathan?”

“I do all right.”

Bursaw held up the photos fanned out. “You’re sure you don’t know any of these women.” Wilkins kept his eyes down, refusing to look at the photos again. “Jonathan, look at me.” Without looking at the photos, Wilkins’s eyes found Bursaw’s. “This is very important. You’ve never seen any of these women before?”

“No.”

“Then I’m assuming it would not be possible for your semen to be found inside them.”

Vail could see the statement hit home. Wilkins’s posture pulled back defensively. It was unusual for a psychopathic killer to have such poor lying skills, but his reaction left little doubt that he had killed the three women.

“Unless somebody planted it there.”

Bursaw smiled crookedly. “Are you in the habit of giving your sperm to people who would want to frame you?”

“You said they’re prostitutes. Maybe I, you know, had a date with them or something.”

“So you have paid for it.”

“Sometimes. You know a man’s got to be a man. Don’t like to admit it, though.”

“I understand, Jonathan.” Bursaw leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Since we’re both telling the truth here, I’m going to tell you something you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.”

“What?”

Bursaw leaned in another inch. “I don’t care about these three whores. I only care about this woman.” He showed Wilkins a photo of Sundra Boston.

This time Wilkins studied the photo before answering. “Man, her I don’t know.”

Bursaw looked up at the hidden camera and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, letting Vail know that it was apparent that Wilkins had nothing to do with Sundra Boston’s disappearance. “Take off your shirt, man.”

“I don’t have to,” Wilkins said.

“Did you want another jujitsu lesson?” Reluctantly, Wilkins pulled